


Snow

by hawkeish



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Disassociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hugs, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, Prompt Fill, References to Depression, Sad Lavellan, it has a sweet ending I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27764488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeish/pseuds/hawkeish
Summary: The Breach is closed, but Siofra Lavellan can't seem to feel any joy. In fact, she can't seem to feel anything at all, except the need to cry.When she gets back to Haven, Blackwall's the first to notice, and the first to help.Basically, I just wanted an excuse for them to hug.
Relationships: Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Female Lavellan, Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Female Lavellan (Dragon Age), Blackwall/Lavellan (Dragon Age)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Siofra's going through it - CWs for references to depression, disassociation, references to not wanting to exist. Please let me know if you think it needs any other tags, or different tags, and I'll alter everything accordingly.

When they close the Breach, the snow’s falling in fat, heavy flakes.

It drifts in the air, settling on the ground like powdered sugar. Smothering all colour and noise, even though bodies swarm the temple and the winding mountain pass—exhausted mages, too many Inquisition forces, the few companions Siofra was allowed to bring. She stumbles behind them, staring blindly into the snow.

Everything’s strangely quiet as the Inquisition returns to Haven in triumph. Too quiet. Normality seems dulled, somehow, without the sickly green tinge to the sky. Void of life, like Siofra’s trapped in her own world, watching everything happen around her through a thin, cracked pane of glass. Going through motions. Feeling, but not feeling enough.

Only the crunch of fresh snow beneath her feet and the static, buzzing pain in her hand reminds Siofra that she’s not caught in some half-dream.

The pain is bad. The gnawing emptiness inside is worse. But the fact that she constantly wants to cry is the worst thing of all. This urge has tried to drown her for weeks. Often, she takes herself off for long walks in the wintry nothingness beyond the village, because she doesn’t know any of these people well enough to have a public breakdown. Sometimes, she comes back with her pockets stuffed with a bizarre amount of elfroot, because part of her wants to think it’ll make her disappearances look perfectly normal.

The rest of her knows the lie’s a flimsy one, but still.

The need to sob is particularly bad now, though, and there’s nowhere to run. Tears have been threatening at her eyes for as long as she’s been trailing Cassandra on the narrow, ice-slick path down to the village. Siofra’s tried to hold them in, but as they wearily march towards Haven’s open gates and the ecstatic crowd ahead, a few slip down her snow-kissed cheeks. Some of them gather at the edge of her mouth; their salt burns on her tongue.

Creators, why is she like this? Siofra clenches her fists, ignoring the scream of pain from her marked hand as her nails dig into the soft flesh of her palms. She should be happy. She should be _delighted_. Closing the hole in the sky is good. Closing the hole in the sky means a step closer to ending whatever caused it. Closing the hole in the sky means a step closer to going home, to seeing the people cares about most in the world, to being able to hold them as tight as she can and never let go—

_Stop thinking about them stop it stop it now._

There’s a choking lump in her throat, and she feels slightly sick, and _fuck,_ there are more tears. Siofra grimaces, wiping them away with the back of her good hand before they can spill, trying to pretend that the swarm of people around her can’t see exactly what’s happening.

“Herald? Are you all right?”

It doesn’t work.

Cassandra’s voice cuts through the growing roar of celebration around them. It knocks Siofra from her daze; she realises, suddenly, that the party’s stopped right beneath the arching entrance to Haven. Right in the middle of everything, of course. How fortuitous. Solas, Leliana and Cassandra circle her, their watchful gazes heavy; just through the gates, she can see the rest of her inner circle gathered. They’re rosy-cheeked and merry, chattering like clan-mates: there’s already a celebratory mug of ale in Sera’s hands, and Josephine is beaming.

They look so relieved. So happy. Why can’t she be happy? Why does she have a sudden, sinking feeling that this isn’t good—that this is just the beginning, and that she might still never see her family again?

“I’m fine!” Siofra replies, too quickly. She forces a grin alongside the words: it’s a shark-smile, all teeth. “I—uh, I’m—I—”

What does she want to say?

_I would like to go home._

_I would like to stand here and sob._

_Sometimes, I would like to stop existing._

A few seconds pass beforeSiofra realises that she’s not actually making a sound, and her eyes go wide. Her ears start to twitch and worry in that way they do when everything is very much not _fine_ , and then she realises everybody’s staring at her, waiting for her to finish.

“Herald?” Cassandra repeats, and Siofra flinches at the word.

“Fenedhis,” she whispers, as her bottom lip starts to tremble dangerously, and her eyes dew up and she feels her knees go a bit weak—

“Lavellan!” Blackwall calls, and before she can do anything, he’s striding forwards. “Congratulations!”

“Congratulations?” She manages, and then, suddenly, she’s not touching the ground.

Blackwall’s wrapped his arms around her and has hoisted her off her toes, in a bear-hug so tight that’s it’s slowly cutting off her ability to breathe. His touch takes her by surprise: she chokes on her next sob, then hiccups, and then her entire body floods with something she can’t quite name as the fact that she’s being _held_ starts to sink in. Sorrow? Elation? Siofra’s not sure.

All she knows is that nobody has held her like this since she left home for the Conclave.

She didn’t think anybody would hold her like this again.

“You’ve only gone and bloody done it!” Blackwall says, loudly. Very loudly. Far too loudly. “I know this was a dream of yours. You should be proud. We should _all_ be proud!”

“Proud?” She wheezes, barely audible above responding cheers. Is he mad? Has he taken a blow to the head? This isn’t her dream. _None_ of this is. “A _dream_? Are you _—”_

It clicks, then. How loud he’s speaking. What he’s saying. That, when Siofra opens her sore eyes and peeks over his shoulder, the crowd’s now a raucous, jostling mess: embracing each other, squeezing shoulders, clapping strangers on the back. Some look on the verge of tears themselves. Others are shouting curses or celebratory insults up at where the Breach used to hang between the clouds, like some brash, joy-drunk choir.

Everybody’s laughing and cheering, and nobody’s looking at the elf stood crying in the snow.

Relief rushes through her, a current so fast and heady that she wonders whether she’s going to vomit. But vomiting over the only person who’s hugged you in months is hardly a pleasant way to return the favour, so Siofra tries to steady herself, sucking in some shaky breaths through gritted teeth.

As she does, she notices that he smells a bit, Blackwall. Of leather, and sweat, and the smithy. But of something else, too, something familiar. Citrus, spices, apples. That afternoon by the lake, when he became more than a beard and gruffness. When she realised that perhaps she had something like a friend in this Inquisition, after all.

Siofra breathes it in, wrapped in his arms. Creators, the Warden’s strong: she’s not exactly tiny, and she’s in full armour. Sense tells her to try and pry herself from his crushing embrace before he squeezes the last dregs of air from her lungs.

But she doesn’t. She can’t. Because Blackwall is so warm and so very soft as he holds her against him, and he has his fingers knotted in the snow-damp, snow-white curls spilling down her back.

“Thank you, Beardy,” Siofra mumbles into his shoulder, as he settles her back on her feet.

 _Thank you_ doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s at least better than being sick.

“You’re welcome, Siofra,” Blackwall says gently in return, giving her one last squeeze.

As they break apart, Siofra feels a little less hollow, just for a moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I was going through it a bit (although not quite to the same degree as Siofra!) when I started writing this, so it's a bit of a mood change from my usual stuff. A lot of it was inspired by listening to CRY by Julia Jacklin (whose music is great, would recommend!)
> 
> I hope I've dealt with Siofra's feelings in a sensitive way; I wanted to write something that reflected some of my own experiences with depression (and also wanted Siofra to get a nice hug).


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